The Cellist /Adolphina

THE CELLIST

@paulbarrellbooks

Am I destined to be alone in my beloved ‘City of Light’?

I do not speak these words; they are mere thoughts circling in my subconscious.

First Movement - Sonata

My name is Adolphina, a name that given the tumultuous events of the last year I
would dearly like to change. My parents died some years ago and I am looked after
financially by two uncles: one is wealthy, the other lives a more humble life in the
land of the conquistadors. My wealthy uncle owns a large silver and tin mine in
Potosi, yet he is a private man and has always been guarded about the actual
purpose of his trade with the USA and Europe. However, it is thanks to his
generosity that I find myself living in a small rooftop apartment in the Latin quarter of
this war-torn city.

I discovered from an early age I had an extraordinary musical gift and tonight, as I
approach my 21st birthday, I will play with the renowned Pasdeloup Orchestra at the
magnificent concert hall in La Villette Park. My charming friend and mentor Claudia
is late and I wonder if she has been delayed by the weather. I am not unduly worried
because the journey I am about to undertake I have made many times before, it’s
just that last night we argued for the first time and, today of all days, I would have
enjoyed her convivial company before the concert.

Our quarrel leaves me with no appetite.

The Cellist – 2,795 words

I order a single café noisette and to pass the time I wipe the condensation off the
cold window pane with my forefinger. Through the small hole I have created in the
frosted glass I watch the snow cover the outside tables in an intricate pattern of white
lace. I remember well the wet and mild winters of my home country and the
snowflakes outside take on a hypnotic quality as they fall silently from the sky, white
voiles of grace and perfection.

I am sitting in the popular Bouillon Chartier on the Rue de Fauborg, where as usual
amidst the haze of cigarette smoke, the mood within the wood panelled room is
conspiratorial, hushed whispers amongst the clatter of pots and pans from the busy
kitchen. To the Parisians around me I probably appear the image of calmness, when
in reality my emotions are a mixture of excitement and trepidation at the thought of
this evening’s performance. There is a small fireplace on the other side of the room
and as I reach for the sugar bowl a log spits, sizzles and falls onto the hearth in an
explosion of sparks. My whole body jumps, causing a nearby waiter to swerve past
my table nearly losing control of his Gueridon trolley.

I regain my composure and peer through my fringe at the other diners as waiters
ferry oval salvers at shoulder height. I inhale the comforting aromas of the French
onion soup and poor man’s cassoulet; the atmosphere is heady and my taste buds
help me recall my first meal with Claudia at an intimate bistro in St. Germain. Sadly,
things have not been the same since the occupation, people do not know who they
can trust and there is less food for all of us. The bitter coffee gradually warms my

insides, although there is still a chill in the room and I pull the blue silk scarf my
father gave me round my exposed neck.

I look out of the window at the inclement weather and sigh. Soon, I will have to go
out into the snow and catch the tram to the concert. It is not such a hardship I remind
myself, for I love performing and even though these are difficult times I must remain
strong, to be more like Claudia with her steely determination. She tells me she is
also a Catholic, but the truth is, I am not like her at all and every night I wait until she
disappears into the cramped bathroom before I take my rosary beads from a small
tin chocolate box and ask for strength and forgiveness from my dead parents.

I am an orphan with no siblings, just the love of my mother and father who in our
short time together taught me dignity and respect for others. I miss my kind, gentle
family.

I glance across the room at my cello case, a silent sentinel in a city of strangers. A
second later the door swings open, banging freely. Amidst a gust of snow and cold
air a Madame in a floor-length fur glides into the room. Under one arm, cocooned in
a travel coat, she carries a small dog of the poodle variety. She is greeted
enthusiastically by the owner who guides her to an empty table next to mine, where
she places her dog on the banquette, a mere arm’s width from me. She glances
quizzically at the strange object by the door before removing her coat in a theatrical
manner.

I have a slight cold today, although it doesn’t prevent me becoming intoxicated by
her pungent perfume, so different to Claudia’s delicate rose water fragrance left on
the crumpled bed sheets every morning. As each day goes by I am growing more
confident under Claudia’s supervision and I expect my direct eye contact has irritated
the Madame. I smile politely back at her while she inspects me with the air of
someone who has something nasty on her shoe. I watch her feed the dog from her
handbag, the jewel encrusted bracelets on her left wrist jingle as she dips long,
manicured fingers into the side pouch for more tasty morsels.

The rotund maître d’, his pristine white apron splashed with sauce, is next to arrive at
her table. His ritual small talk and over familiarity is dealt with by a Parisian shrug of
her shoulders before she retrieves a small hand mirror from her bag and checks her
plump lips for blemishes.

‘The snow is an inconvenience, but life must go on. Parisians are nothing if not
resilient.’

She says this to no-one in particular and clearly likes the sound of her own voice, her
accent a nasal rive gauche, as she announces to a nearby table of fashionable
women that after her meal she is looking forward to attending the much-publicised
concert. I am not accustomed to displays of vulgarity by women and I find her haute
couture and brusque manners distasteful. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gives her
arse to the highest ranking German officer. I place a hand over my mouth to hide my
amusement.

Later...

Second Movement - Adagio

The curtain rises and I notice the Madame, minus her dog, sitting in the second row.
The conductor taps his baton and the orchestra pick up their instruments and
prepare to play. I spread my legs a little further apart and focus jointly on the
conductor’s lead and the sheet music balanced on the stand in front of me.

The music builds gradually, the string section hold the early movements of the
concerto until, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a burly Kommandant squeeze
himself along the row and lower himself carefully into the empty seat beside the
Madame. She whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh and cough at the
same time. I feel their eyes on me, my fingers tense, my insides instantly flushed
with an ice-cold enema and for a reason I cannot explain, I no longer feel
anonymous within the confines of the auditorium.

Where is my sweet Claudia?

My disposition is momentarily lifted as we play the first movement and I try to forget
about our recent quarrel and the disconcerting attentions of the Madame and the
German officer.

Claudia has not been herself recently, becoming more guarded and secretive about
her work. I want to talk to her and explain that I have done nothing wrong.

For in my heart I feel only pain and emptiness.

I am brought back to the present by the conductor pointing his baton in my direction
and once again I am the personification of calmness. I focus on my breathing;
suddenly my fingers are not my own and I become completely absorbed in the
music. The audience sits in respectful silence until the first piece is finished and only
then do they fill the great hall with ripples of applause.

When we play my favourite piece, the Sonata by Boccherini in B flat major, I am
transported back to my home town and happier times with my family. After the last
note is played, the baton falls and finally the great hall erupts in rapturous applause
and whistles, especially from the well-oiled German officers in the upper circle.
Holding my cello, I move forwards and acknowledging the applause I bow to my
audience and the conductor. For a split second I happen to glance down; my
stomach churns. There are two empty seats in the second row.

Stay calm. Smile.

The production company has arranged for my cello to be stored in the band room
with the other larger instruments for the three-night duration of our stay and after a
second standing ovation I hurry off stage along the maze of musty corridors below.
There are numerous small changing rooms in the subterranean basement through

which meltwater runs in channels beneath our feet. At the end of a long corridor I
eventually find the door marked ‘soloists’. I close it softly and lean against the cool
plaster; it’s so cold I can see my breath.

A light bulb hangs like a noose from the ceiling of the small box-like room, while the
travelling bags, hats and coats of my fellow musicians lie discarded in the four
corners. I pull up a chair and sit at the dressing table and inspect my face. The dirty
sink gurgles when I turn the tap and brownish water belches sporadically from the
faucet. I don’t want anyone to know I have been crying and I wipe black mascara
from my face with a saliva moistened tissue.

There is a knock at the door. I hold my breath; my hand moves down my face to my
neck where I feel the blood pumping through my carotid artery. In wild panic I seize a
potential weapon from the dressing table.

Why did Claudia snatch the newspaper from my grasp and react in such a way?

My hand shakes, fearing the burly Kommandant is outside my door with his
henchmen.

I brandish the metal comb like a blade, as a figure in an oatmeal coat and matching
hat slips quietly into the dimly lit room.

Claudia.

Relief courses through my entire body and I push back the chair. Her hair is different,
tied up and pinned in a bun beneath her hat. I remember, for it was only two nights
ago, her voluptuous curves beneath the sheet and her feather-light touch on my olive
skin. She made me feel alive, the centre of her universe. I do not embrace her, even
though every fibre of my being wants to; instead, I take her hand with the single red
rose and lift it to within an inch of my face. The scent reminds me of the perfumed
soap she washes with before bed.

She gently presses her finger against my lips.

‘Do not speak. Trust me.’

She hands me a scrap of paper with a street name written on it.

Rue Casimir.

‘We are not safe and must not return to the apartment tonight. We must leave
immediately,’ she whispers.

Our eyes meet and I nod in agreement. I retrieve my coat, scarf and travelling bag
and Claudia leads me out into the night.

Third Movement - Minuet with Trio

We hurry alongside the frozen Canal de l’Ourcq, my dress tucked into my
undergarments below my trenchcoat and soon the theatre and old cattle market are
mere silhouettes in the distance. Thankfully the snow has stopped, although
progress is treacherous and I slip and stumble scuffing my knees on the cobbles. I
want to scream obscenities in my native tongue, my shoes are soaked, my
stockinged feet frozen and blood runs down my shins; however , is no time for any
melodramatics or first aid. Claudia waits for me at the next corner, holding an arm
out as a warning. We hear them first, a group of three drunken Gestapo officers
heading towards us. There is no time to find another route and they jeer and leer as
they pass but do not ask to see our papers. Claudia beckons me on, communicating
directions by subtle hand gestures.

The city is not safe.

I am usually vibrant and stoical in her company and not prone to melancholic
thoughts, however there is a mood growing in the city that the dark years that lie
ahead will be a monumental struggle for all of us. My French comprehension is
improving and I wonder what dark thoughts lay within the pages of the paper I found,
titled simply, Combat. Claudia says the underground gathers momentum and we will
never bow to the fascists, which leaves me fearful for our safety. I am just another
innocent artist like Sartre and Camus caught in the crossfire of war.

Claudia leans against a lamp post while I place my hands on my thighs and catch my
breath once again. As I straighten up she grabs me unexpectedly and kisses me
passionately.

Am I forgiven?

I taste her cherry lipstick and remember, part Spanish part French, our breathless
exchanges in the apartment, the feel of her butterfly kisses on my stomach and the
caresses on my thighs. After our love making we would climb out of the skylight and
sit on the bone-chillingly cold tiles with a bottle of wine. From our vantage point we
had incredible views over the jigsaw of Parisian rooftops and ridges. At street level
the apartment blocks looked grey and uniform while up there the skylights, slopes
and rooftop terraces led our eyes to the Tour Eiffel: a beacon to another universe lit
now by thousands of tiny fairy lights. I wish I could turn back time because I am not
sure we will ever be the same people again, for one of us has changed.

Fourth Movement - Allegro

A freezing fog replaces the snow and descends on the 19th arrondissement. Within
minutes our vision is reduced to mere yards. The Gothic streets are dark and misty
and every alleyway and doorway is a hiding place for monsters and madmen.
Claudia stops at a street corner and tugs my arm, pointing at the sign just visible
through the grey smog. We have arrived at the Rue Casmir. We climb an icy iron
stairwell, hand over hand, like climbers roped together on a dangerous traverse.
When we reach the top, Claudia ushers me through a heavy black door into a non-
descript passageway. There are two other doors on either side of the dark corridor;
the one on the right is ajar and a quadrant of light pools diagonally across the
threadbare carpet. I hesitate on the threshold.

I have to trust. Friendship is sacred.

I hear Claudia shut the door and lock it behind me. A shape moves out of the
shadows. The figure strikes a match and lifts the flame to a cigarette. He is dressed
in a long dark coat and black fedora. He seems familiar, surely it is not...

The man, on closer inspection is clearly not my uncle; however, he asks prying
questions about him and his trade with America.

Why? My uncle is a million miles away.

Claudia’s eyes bore into mine and fill my veins with ice. I am confused and
frightened; why is she acting in this way? The face hidden by the hat speaks again
and this time his husky voice is more threatening.

I clench my fists in defiance.

What is he to you? My uncle makes nothing of interest, it is just a boring tin mine.
He is innocent. I am innocent.

I don’t see Claudia raise her hand. The slap is vicious and within seconds tears sting
my eyes. She takes a step towards me. I feel her hot breath on my neck.

‘We want you to help us. We want information about the smelter and munitions
factory in Texas.’

A low moan escapes my lips. My world shatters into a million tiny pieces and I know I
have lost the one I loved.

Betrayed.

This is the word I want to scream at her, but instead I sob and beg for my freedom.